What follows are not my words. They’re those of a man whom I only met a couple of times but who singularly changed the way I understand the social scene on this campus, and beyond that, the potential for union (both spiritual and physical) between the sexes. He spoke in a lexicon that was both strange and familiar, foreign and native. With a slight lisp, he ran through compound words and terminology with almost preternatural vigor, mixing the most ribald details with the most profound of allusions. It was as if I simultaneously understood none of what he said and that his words were the very translation of my heart’s secret Braille. I later learned he had published one book, entitled A Pop Culture Encyclopedia but have looked through HOLLIS extensively and have been unable to find it. An alum (his graduating year I do not know), the man went only by the title “The Expert” and was prone to philosophical spouts. He’d look across the room at nothing in particular and say, “There’s no ‘I’ in cream.’ Only team-players check their G-spots at the door.” Or, “You can’t fake the funk on a nasty chunch.” Sometimes his instructions were more direct, “Drop names, drop ‘bows, and pretty soon you’ll be dropping clothes.”
I have reason to think he took a liking to me. He kept saying, “Among all the numb-dicked prick-toed Macchios on this lonely planet, you’ve grabbed a couple chopsticks and done some damage. That’s the most anyone can do.” When I asked him what he was referring to, he said, as if quoting, “Macchio, Ralph. Ralph Macchio was a significant early player who changed the way mustaches are worn, and rarely receives credit for his pivotal role in the My Cousin Vinny counter-culture. His name is also the source of the term ‘Macchio’ (adj., n.) referring to the male instinct to act like Ralph Macchio’s character in the Karate Kid (before Mr. Miyagi’s tutelage) when under duress. (Example: ‘Sir, this is a family establishment—you’re going to have to quell the Macchio instinct.’)”
What follows are observations he asked me to pass on to the rest of the Harvard community, under the headline you read—I figured it was the least I could do. Some seem extremely fragmentary, almost incomplete, but I have a feeling there’s a secret order behind it all, something The Expert intended that we might slowly begin to understand.
If she attends your garage sale, you must eat her eggplant. From Boccacio to Baio, all the most essential player-qua-pimps know this.
When walking with a slammin’ honey-spot that you’re trying to dig on, note how Harvard’s fertilizer smells like semen. This’ll show that you have intimate knowledge of semen’s nature and scent. So she doesn’t suspect your familiarity comes only from masturbation, you should add, “I know it smells like this not because I make it by myself, but because I hook-up with girls all the time and semen gets involved.” Honeys on campus like a take-charge no-bullshit kind of pimp and comments like that show that you’ve been around the block for real.
Establish a rep early in an institutionalized scene so you can set-up contacts with some of the older players and soak up the game from an inside-the-club vantage point. As a wise friend of mine once said, “Join the Spee, join the Phoenix, join the Porc, join the Delphic, join the Fox.1 Join what you can, and before you become an investment banker you’ll be a big-time on-campus booty-spanker.”
Nothing says ass-trap like an on-campus leadership position. As a Crimson President once said to me, “It’s not my game that’s gotten me ass. It’s this office, this desk, the trappings of my authority. Without this institution, I’m just another lackluster Macchio-slut looking for something to toggle against.”
You’ll only start to get the big-time swamp-honeys if you think of ass-getting as an extracurricular responsibility on par with a major CityStep or Crimson Key leadership position. Morever, getting involved in CityStep or Crimson Key is a great way to grind up against the most rhythmic and ambitious asses at the College, respectively. Walking into the chillest final clubs on a Saturday night wearing a Crimson Key T-shirt is like wearing a neon sign that says, “I’m the master locksmith, I’m the great gate-opener. Bring me the hottest trotch-locks!”
Creating a private scene at a Tommy’s Convenience or 7-11 post-2 a.m. is an undervalued method of sneaking up on “crab-cakes,” and by “crab-cakes” I mean the “melon center.” All the most intriguing honeys respect independence, and nothing says independence like roasting a Go-Go Beef Taquito by your lonesome on a Wednesday night. Set-up shop at the coffee-maker, slurp down Cup-a-Noodle after Cup-a-Noodle, start every sentence with, “My penis feels so…” and prepare for the Big Gulp hour.
If you’re a gay guy looking for hot chicks, join the Advocate. Nowhere on campus is the hetero-homo make-out ratio higher. Even if you’re not gay, work all available connections to get on an Advocate party list. Once inside the building, exude a general sense of contempt, find a lit-dizzy girl in the darkness, and say “Derrida and the whole deconstructionist project has really disappointed me.” Remember to bring your proverbial facemask, though, ‘cause you’re in for some tonsil-hockey!
It’s my firm belief that all of the hottest, nastiest, kinkiest sex on campus—I’m talking anal, whips and whatever—is nerd sex. If you have any competency with calculus, I’d urge you take a 50s-level math course, if only to spit serious game, get serious ass and e-mail me (via rubin@fas) the details, so I can either confirm or dis-confirm my theory.
Always be willing to pull the trigger and bite the bullet. Opportunities for ass can come anywhere and at any time. You’ll be in the pit, hacking the sack with some hobos, and a slum-honey glory-girl with ink all over her grill will come up to you begging for something erect. It’s your obligation to tell her, “I know I go to Harvard, but this Ivory Tower’s looking for any old hunchback that’ll ring my bell!” Clever shit like that gets all the pit girls hot, especially if you’re flashing an Andy Jackson.
Be direct. Go right up to the most cherished of the bleary-eyed slut-dolls (or the most respected of the self-hating Macchio shit-pimps) with a bronzed copy of your resume, and say, “I want to accomplish your candy-bisque in a late-night humping session this evening. Let’s have my “P” talk to your “V” and set something up ASAP.” Ass-by-appointment works, and if someone tells you it doesn’t, I know who that person is. His name’s Arnold. He’s jealous and sore—in more ways than one—since he’s been in a dark shame spiral, jerkin’ his Sam Perkin like it’s the End of Days, the sky’s blood red, and we’re all fucked to hell.
Build a snow penis—be sure to include a vein, and watch the honeys gather around it like monkeys in 2001.
Work the Loker billiards and foosball scenes. Pop $2 in the Jukebox, pump up the Prince, and start rubbing something. Carry a banana and some extra-sensitive ’tex around the tables, so when hitting balls with a talented honey, you can spit, “Nice shot in the corner pocket, and by the way, I can put a condom on a banana like nobody’s business. Not because I’m a pervert or shit like that, but because I sheath magnum on my mango-root all the time, right before I have sex with ultimate stick-shift honeys like yourself.”
Suggest hide-and-go-seek at intimate hours. She’ll lose so badly, that she’ll actually win, and you’ll be the one in the corner crying “Holy Club! Why was I given a wang-nozzle if it’s but a slave to its resting places?”
Pimps pimp and hoes watch. Vice versa is equally true. Pimps can be hoes, hoes can be pimps. Stare deep into the horn-slice and devour the cheetos ‘til your lips are orange and she’s screaming, “There’s nothing wrong with love.”
1 Do not join Sigma Chi.
Jacob A. Rubin ’03 is a Literature concentrator living in Winthrop House. The Expert advised him to take four years to complete his FM comp. It seems to have worked for both of them.